


Werewelves

by Zhie



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 465 FA, Choose Your Own Adventure, Darkfic, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, There's a lot of possibilities but if I tell you it'll spoiler the whole point of this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-27 00:11:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20398459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhie/pseuds/Zhie
Summary: STOP! THIS STORY IS NOT READ BEGINNING TO END!The year is 465 FA, and your realm is in trouble.  Your cousins have been guests for longer than you would like, and they are gaining favor in your court.  Your adventure begins as you return from a hunt with Celegorm and Curufin, home to Nargothrond, where your valet listens to your concerns...but soon, there will be other perils for you to overcome.  The decisions are yours to make, for you are Finrod Felagund, King of Nargothrond.(There are many possibilities for this story, for this is not just one story, but over 1000, depending on the paths you choose and the decisions you make.  There is also a choice to read the story in a PG version or an M+ version -- and this can mean differences in the outcomes as well.Chapter One is the introduction with a link to the choose your path story; Chapter Two is the 'author's choice' path for TRSB 2019.  Please leave comments about the story in chapter one, and comments about the constructed 'author's choice' path in chapter two.  I may add other paths in AO3 in the future to be read through without the game aspect, but the pleasure is really in the experience of making choices through the story.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WaywardDesertKnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaywardDesertKnight/gifts).

> A very special thanks to WaywardDesertKnight for the amazing art that inspired this adventure. Without the art that was created, none of this would have happened. 
> 
> Thank you to AnnEllspethRaven for beta reading for grammar/spelling/goofed up things; thank you to DawnFelagund for being my canon checker. Thank you to the Erestor's Library late night crew of Merril, Mel, and Mark for assisting with rating choices for the different parts and continuity checks in the early stages. Thank you to everyone who listened to me late at night or early in the morning when I was flailing about vectors that had no endings and trying to get this all to work. 144 sections, and 1002 possibly stories. \o/ Now, off you go to Nargothrond, darlings, enjoy your adventure!
> 
> (And if you want to come flail at me afterwards about your success, failure, or other choices, I hang on Discord as zhie#3383)

This work was inspired by the art created by WaywardDesertKnight; the artwork can be found within the story. (If you'd like to see more artwork by WaywardDesertKnight, check out [this link.](https://wavy-the-knight-does-art.tumblr.com/)

It is suggested that for full effect, you read this story in the dark at night. 

Alone.

[Enter Nargothrond Here](https://play2.textadventures.co.uk/Play.aspx?id=editor/f8e67259-73a3-4d2c-986b-019e3836c1ed%2fYou+Are+Finrod.aslx)

Disclaimer: I am not responsible for nightmares incurred from adventuring as Finrod Felagund.


	2. Gift Remix: A possible path for the 'Werewelves' story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the version that I think best highlights the art that was created by WaywardDesertKnight, as well as the vision that was suggested by the art. In other words, if I had written just one story for this art, this is what it would have been.

_After the Hunt  
_  
“Your majesty?”

You throw your quiver to the ground and slam the door shut. As you pace your room, concern becomes etched on the features of your valet’s face. He is sitting at the smaller of two desks in the room, the one he typically uses when writing correspondence you dictate. You try to ease his emotions with a smile, but it twists into a grimace. “We came upon a great elk,” you say as you begin to relate the afternoon hunt with your cousins to Edrahil, whose full attention is now on you. “I told Celegorm to hold as he notched an arrow, for the creature was clearly a king of the forest, and I doubted our ability to transport it back even if he did fell it. He laughed at me, and then he rallied the party--not only his own men, but mine as well--and they went after the elk despite my orders not to! I shouted for them to come back, but they would not listen.”

“This is not the first time Celegorm or Curufin have asserted an authority that has not been extended to them here,” says Edrahil. “They cross boundaries more and more each day.”

“I feel as if the confidence of the people is slipping away from me,” you admit as you settle your bow in a corner and sit down beside Edrahil. “They hear the words of my cousins and they are persuaded to listen to them over me.”

“Perhaps they have overstayed their welcome,” Edrahil suggests. “I could suggest that there is better hunting to be found elsewhere.”

“They will see through that,” you say immediately.

“I could draft an official document and we could be as aggressive as they have been. If you do not tell them to leave, they are just going to stay, and then I agree with you--the realm is in jeopardy. They might not be actively planning a coup, but it is what I see happening,” declares Edrahil. “I believe Celegorm would snatch your crown from your head if he could but reach it.”

You smile. Even in such times, Edrahil still seems to manage a glint of humor. “I am trying to balance the needs of the kingdom with the dynamics of my extended family,” you tell him. “I must consider what will happen if I send them off too forcefully and my cousin Fingon gets word. While he was very close to my younger brothers, with them gone, it feels his devotion to the cause of the Feanorians has become greater--especially without his father to counsel him otherwise.”

“Maedhros has always had the ear of Fingon. In the years that Fingon has been High King, it seems his decisions and policies have been influenced by the desires of Maedhros.” Edrahil lights another lamp as your discussion continues. “Maybe that is the answer, sire. We could write to your cousin Fingon and ask he summon Celegorm and Curufin, or recall them to their own realms.”

“Would that show weakness on my part, though, if I am unable to secure my own kingdom? Do I even deserve to sit upon the throne and wear the crown?” You run your hands over your hair and then begin to unbraid the blond tresses, plaited to keep errant wisps out of the way during the hunt. 

“I do not think Fingon would see it that way. As you said yourself, he was very close to Angrod and Aegnor. He will not have forgotten that,” advises Edrahil.

You chew at your bottom lip as you consider the words of your valet. “Nearly ten years has it been since they were lost to us. He and I have spoken little of what happened. In our days of youth in Valinor, we were like brothers, all of us, and Turgon as well. I miss those days.”

“Then it would seem you have a choice to make, your majesty,” says Edrahil. “Shall we attempt to deal with our unwanted guests who have overstayed their welcome on our own, or should we enlist the aid of your cousin Fingon?”

**You decide to deal with Celegorm and Curufin yourself.**

_A Strong King  
_  
“I need to show the people I am a strong ruler,” you say to Edrahil, and he nods in agreement. “Asking Fingon to step in on something so trivial will make people wonder if I am but a puppet for the High King. No, we will tend to this here.” 

As you drum your fingers on the top of the desk, Edrahil positions ink, quill, and paper. “Do you wish me to take dictation?” he asks you.

You rub your chin. “A letter would get the point across without direct confrontation, but there is always the possibility that they will neglect to read it, or ignore it altogether. On the other hand, directly speaking to them might escalate the already tense atmosphere we are experiencing.” You stand up and go into the dressing chamber, raising your voice so that Edrahil can hear you as you change out of your hunting gear in favor of a plush robe in which to brood. 

“On one hand, they are your family. The direct approach may not be as dramatic as you envision. Most of these confrontations have happened while on a hunt or while partaking in debate. On the other hand,” he says as he dips the nib into the ink, “a letter is something solid. There are no opportunities for them to twist your works as you speak, or call upon their comrades to assist in their attempt to overstay their welcome.”

“If the letter is written, it will need to be firm,” you say solemnly. “If the route I take is conversation, then I can be suggestive in nature.”

“Which shall it be?” asks Edrahil.

**You decide to speak with your cousins.**

_Cousin to Cousin  
_  
“I must be the one to speak with them. They are family, after all.” You slide your feet into a pair of house slippers and leave Edrahil to return to his previous business. There is no time like the present, you decide, and you traverse the halls of your domain in search of your cousins.

It is not difficult to find them, for there is laughter and song in one of the venues they most prefer following a hunt. You find Celegorm regaling a group of young soldiers, sharing tales of the hunt as only he can, whilst Curufin is keeping watch on the festivities with goblet in hand. He notices you first, and lifts a hand in greeting. It is only a few moments later than Celegorm abruptly finishes his story, and strolls over to join you and his brother. “What great honor to have you here with us, your majesty!” announces Celegorm with a sloppy bow. “To what do we owe your visit? Insomnia? Sleepwalking?”

“Certainly not the company,” Curufin says in an even tone.

You attempt a smile and swallow the anxiety you feel. Lifting your chin a little, you say, “I wanted to thank you for the hunt today, but the long hours afield made me consider the business I must return to here, and that you both must have errands elsewhere that our forest dalliances are keeping us from.”

“Are we being dismissed?” Celegorm raises a challenging brow. 

“I think we all know that we are staving off the inevitable, and that our antics when King Fingon and your brother attempt to strategize an end to the suffering of our people are, in a word, rude. We need to show that we are allied with them, and that includes seeing to our duties as nobles who ultimately serve the High King.”

Celegorm rolls his eyes, but Curufin gives a slight nod. “Another month of hunting boar and elk bring us no closer to recovering the Silmarilli,” says Curufin. “What would father say?”

Resignedly, Celegorm agrees. “We will leave in a week’s time, so that we might order our affairs here,” he promises. 

Pleased, you give a genuine smile. “I will have food and supplies prepared for your journey,” you offer as Edrahil bursts into the room.

“Sire! Sire, you must come with me,” he demands, his face pale and his eyes wide. “There is a man here to requests to see you--a man who has traveled far and requests your aid.” Edrahil lowers his voice so that only you and your cousins hear his next words. “He has upon his finger the Ring of Barahir.”

Your face becomes ashen as well. You lick your lips as you recall the Dagor Bragollach, and terrible fate that almost befell you. Surrounded by orcs at the Fen of Serech, you stumbled around, hardly able to keep upon your feet as the enemy kept coming and coming, until at last you thought you would meet your doom--but lo, it was Barahir who saved you, and ever will you be in debt to him and his kin. 

“Well, this sounds interesting!” announces Celegorm. “We should go see what he wants!”

**You agree to speak with Beren.**

_Take me to the King  
_  
Seeing Beren, you need no ring to remind you of days past. Celegorm is on your heels, with Curufin following behind him. Courtiers line the throne room, and word has come to the chieftains, who are now streaming in behind you. Before the chamber is flooded with people, you shout in a commanding tone, “Clear the room!”

The guards blow trumpets and repeat your orders. “Clear the room! By command of the King, clear the room!”

You reach Beren before any of the guards, and flick a finger in his direction. “Not you. You stay. We shall speak in private.”

Once the chamber is empty and secured, you lead Beren to a passage behind the throne, and lead him to a safe room few know exists. Edrahil is waiting there, and silently he closes and locks the door. You know he will wait on the other side, and guard the chamber with his life should someone discover where you are. As Beren speaks, you know your fate is sealed, but you are nothing if not noble and true to your word. You agree to what Beren asks of you, knowing, as you once told your sister Galadriel, that it will mean your doom. 

You warn Beren of the current climate in Nargothrond, and tell him of the trouble Celegorm and Curufin have been causing you. Again, you emphasize that you will aid Beren, but that he may not find friends in the sons of Feanor once his quest is known.

After you have discussed details with Beren, you prepare yourself to speak to your people. As you and Beren leave the room, you instruct Edrahil to call your chieftans to the throne room, knowing your cousins are likely waiting for the doors to reopen so that they might learn the reason for Beren’s appearance at court.

**Return with Beren to the throne room.**

_The Oath  
_  
Once everyone is assembled, you direct their attention to Beren. You listen to Beren’s story for a second time. Unfortunately, both Celegorm and Curufin have been listening, too. You try to keep your focus upon Beren, but find that every now and then your gaze flits to where your cousins stand nearby, in the shadows of a banner, whispering words you cannot hear. It is the expression on their faces that worries you most--a hint of a sinister smile, like two cats who have cornered a mouse and are trying to decide how to play with him, and who will get the tail and who the head. 

Debate ensues. As you suspected, your cousins do not remain silent. It is Celegorm who speaks first, ensuring everyone understands that he and Curufin lay claim to the silmarilli with their brothers, and anyone who stands in their way they name enemy. You curse internally for not ousting them from your kingdom before Beren arrived. 

When Curufin speaks, he is calmer than Celegorm, but with no less power to his words. Your heart races as you look about at those whose loyalty you once had, as they nod their heads at what Curufin says to them. You plan your rebuttal of their words, carefully choosing what you will say once they stop talking, until Curufin concludes with the following: “Felagund is King here, yes, but a King who should lead you, not command you. Is he Vala? I say to that nay, and so should you all. Is his intention folly? To that I say yea, for even should he succeed, he would bring upon him the fury of myself, and my brothers, to have taken into his possession or aided in the possessing by another even one of the silmarilli. And I ask you, dear friends, do you seek to bring that wrath upon your home here?”

In a moment of unbridled rage and sudden grief, you take from your brow your silver crown, casting it down to your feet. You cannot break your promise to Beren, but you will not cause your people to suffer for your decision. You say as much, and call for aid from any willing to provide it.

Without pause, Edrahil approaches, always loyal, and then as the moments pass, a person here and another there. Soon, there are more--but not many more. Your eyes count ten before you, and Edrahil the closest. He picks up your crown and declares that still you are king, though if you must, then another should be chosen to rule while you are away. Edrahil holds the crown out to you. You take hold of it with one shaky hand and scan the room. You wish not to speak your own prophecy, that you shall never return, but call Orodreth to you and declare him steward in your absence. As you walk from the throne and pass through the subjects who have forsaken you, you catch sight of Celegorm and Curufin. Neither utter a word, but they smile as you step out of sight.

**Continue...to M+ version**

_Naked and Afraid  
_  
“Who are you?”

A shiver runs down your spine and your arms prick with gooseflesh. Your throat is raw from your attempt to gain mastery over Sauron in your battle of song, but you reflexively swallow anyhow. It burns. Huddled together with Beren and your ten companions, none of you speak a word. There are orcs surrounding you, their weapons so close you can see your reflection in a pair of sharp steel knives. Still, you say nothing, even as one blade presses against your neck.

“Who sent you?” 

Sauron’s questions continue to go unanswered. You occupy your mind with thoughts of the journey that brought you here. You traveled with the others from Nargothrond on an autumn evening, and followed Narog to the Falls of Ivrin. Orcs, similar to those around you now, you encountered and slayed, and then by your craft, you used what clothing and weapons they had to take on their forms, and disguise yourself and your companions. It seemed to work, until you continued along the western pass. Sauron grew suspect somehow, and only after a duel of music did he reveal to you and your companions, as he and his minions ripped weapons and supplies from you, that he knew you untrue for not reporting in. Then clothing was torn off and you and the other eleven were shoved down to your knees in the dirt, scrutinized, and questioned. 

“If you do not tell me, I shall kill each and every one of you. Slowly. Painfully.” Sauron walks around you and your companions, every now and then reaching out to tug at someone’s pointed ear or a tuft of errant hair, or in the case of Beren, his beard. His touching becomes more insistent as the minutes wear on. He cruelly grabs a fistful of your hair and snaps your neck back. You cringe and look up into his dark eyes, but do not give him the satisfaction of sound. “You are a pretty one. I could hardly shut you up before. Give me the name of your master. Tell me why you are here.”

You suck in breath but say nothing. A cry of surprise comes from one of the orcs, and Sauron releases his hold on you to investigate. From the pack you recognize as Edrahil’s, an orc has lifted your crown. You want to turn and ask him just what the fuck he was thinking to bring it along, but as Sauron reaches into the bag again and pulls out the Nauglamir, you know that even if you had a chance to speak privately to Edrahil, you would have no words for his choices. “My, my. What fine treasure. Perhaps they are tomb robbers, on a grave mission, and have been scared speechless from what they have scene. Is that it?” Sauron asks as he comes to Beren and tilts his head up with one finger beneath his chin. “Have you plucked these jewels from the dead, and traversed my lands to hide away your foul deeds?”

Sauron chuckles and returns to circling. “I think not,” he answers for himself. “I think there is a quest afoot, and I think at least one of you is of some importance.” His eyes fall upon you, but you dare not blink or move. “Are these your loyal subjects, your lordship?”

You want to snarl at him, ‘You address a King as Your Majesty,’ but you keep your lips sealed. You can hear only slight shifts around you, but no one else speaks, either.

“Very well. We shall see just how loyal the others are to you, your lordship. Have any of you had the pleasure to see a disembowelment?” And without waiting for an answer this time, Sauron grabs hold of one of the orcs by the back of the neck, snatches his own dagger from his hand, and jabs it into the orc’s abdomen, at the hip. The orc squeals and flails an arm as Sauron pulls the blade from one side of its belly to the other, then leaves it lodged in his flesh. “Quite painful. Done correctly, it will not kill the individual immediately.” Sauron places his now free hand over the mouth of the orc to mute him. After a few moments of decreasing activity, the orc becomes limp, and you watch as Sauron holds the orc upright by the hand over his mouth, and uses his other hand to detach the plate of armor fastened at the orc’s shoulders. When there is no longer a partial barrier, the innards of the orc spill out, unwinding, falling into a bloody pile before him. Some of them slither and flop, and press against your knee, for you are closest to the act. Sauron helps to draw the rest out as the process slows, gently easing the length of intestines from the cavity. You can feel the unease of your companions even though you are unable to see them from your position. 

“Now, if I want, I can just leave him here like this. In pain, suffering--losing a lot of blood,” remarks Sauron as he regards the growing pool beneath him. “He is already in a state of shock, as you can see.” Sauron lets go of the orc, who slides down into the pile of his own bowels. After a moment, the orc weakly makes an attempt to scoop up what he can and shove it back into the breach with little success before he slumps over the gore. Drool and bile begins to ooze from his mouth. “Mmm. However, this one was loyal to me, so I shall do him a favor.” Sauron steps around to the side of the orc and looks down at him until the orc tilts his head to gaze upward. Then, without a word of warning, Sauron stomps his foot mightly down upon the head of the orc. You are hit with a barrage of flesh and ichor and even a large chunk of skull. 

You focus your thoughts on Amarie. You silently thank the Valar, all of the ones whose names you can remember at least, that she decided not to travel to Middle-earth with you. You hope she will never need learn of this tale.

“Any talkers now that we have had a little demonstration?” Sauron looks around, staring at each person of the party in turn, saving you for last. “No? Pity. Well, if someone should change their mind, you need only scream my name and I shall willingly be there.” Sauron cackles, and then motions with his arm. “Throw them in the pit,” he declares.

**You keep silent and try to think of another plan.**

_Silence is Golden  
_  
Dozens of orcs drag you and your companions into a deep, dark pit. There are chains bolted to the rough, rocky surface of the pit, and with these you and your company are restrained. Wrists are bound in iron not unlike what you imagine your cousin Maedhros was subjected to, and ankles are shackled so that your legs are spread painfully apart. You can already feel the ache in your back from only a few minutes of bondage. 

Sauron enters after everyone has been subdued, and he comes to you first. “Welcome. I hope you find the accommodations to your liking.”

You say nothing, and only glare at him.

“You seem to be the leader here, my lord,” taunts Sauron as he pokes a clawed finger under your chin. Still, you refuse to respond. “Are these your servants? Your friends? Unfortunate travelers who accompanied you in the wilderness?”

Your eyes remain motionless as you stare at him.

“Such terrible manners. You should always reply to questions when you are asked.” Sauron turns gives a nod to one of the orcs. Across the pit, you can barely make out the form of one of your fellowship as he is beaten by a pair of orcs. They hit him with clubs and break bones, and carve at his skin with short, blunt knives that tear into his flesh, but do not do so much damage that they kill him. Sauron steps back into your line of sight and asks, “Are you sure you have nothing to say to me?”

You swallow hard, but offer no words.

“Very well.” Sauron nods again, and all around you, the cries of anguish rise up as the other orcs unleash the same torment on all of the others around you. A fire is started at the center of the pit, and they use the fire and iron rods to sear skin, branding the others with cruel words written in a mockery of Tengwar. An orc begins to come around, removing marriage bands and other jewelry and placing the metal into a basket. Rings which he cannot remove he cuts right from hands, taking finger and all into his basket as the screaming continues. His impatience in collecting jewels from the ears of one of your companions leads him to slice off both lobes from the unfortunate elf and keep moving.

Another orc walks around in the opposite direction with an oversized pair of shears meant for cutting rope. He uses it to crudely chop off long tresses and braids from everyone in the company. When he reaches you, Sauron holds out his hand and take possession of the tool. “You must have Vanyarin blood.” He fingers your hair, drawing his claws through it. When you do not answer, he lifts the metal blades up and positions them to rest against your shoulder as he pulls down on the length of your long hair. “The House of Finarfin, perhaps?” 

You do not give him so much as a satisfaction of a flinch as he closes the shears and the chunk of hair tumbles down your back to the ground. He repeats the motion again, a little higher on the other side, making no attempt to cut evenly. “Since I intend to kill you all, it would be a shame to see all this beautiful hair go to waste.” He grabs hold of a hank of hair and chops it off so close to the tip of your ear you feel the metal blades rub against your skin. Sauron throws the wad of hair into the basket. “More fill for the pillows my pets like to sleep upon,” he tells you before he hands the shears back to the orc who finishes giving you what is very intentionally the worst trim of your life. This event has only distracted you slightly from the ordeal the others are suffering. A few minutes later, and the orcs begin to retreat. Sauron leaves last, with the words, “Sleep well,” before he shuts the door.

As you look around at the state of the company, you feel the guilt of having been left mostly untouched by the orcs. Every other member of the party is bruised and bloodied, some in a swoon from the loss of blood from fingers and ears having been hewn off. Edrahil, who seems to sense your grief, mumbles through bloodied lips, “It is not your fault. We all took up this quest of our own free will.”

You begin to have second thoughts on asking for anyone to accompany you and Beren on this mission. You would do anything to get the others safely back to Nargathrond right now, but know that door is closed. You consider the possibilities before you.

**You are determined to escape with the others as soon as you can.**

_Escape _

When you were placed in your bonds, you noted that the cuffs around your wrists were a little loose. Through the night, you try to stay calm and keep your breathing even as you work to twist and turn one arm until you find just the right way to slide your left hand through the metal until it is free. You wiggle your fingers, purple-blue from the friction, but freed nonetheless. You work on the other wrist, and look around for anything that might help you to free your feet. 

“Careful, sire! Someone approaches!”

You do not know who alerted you, but you are thankful for their words as you reach up and grasp hold of the chains, hoping in the dim light you will not be spotted right away. It is an orc at the door, and he makes the rounds from person to person with a bucket of water. A little gets splashed on each person, and then they are given a sip from a ladle before he moves on. Edrahil turns his head in refusal and gets slapped in the face before the orc continues. You are the fifth he will encounter, and you take what little time you have to study him. His hands are full with the bucket and ladle, but there is a sword at his side. It will be tricky to retrieve, but you are determined. 

**You wait until he is in front of you.**

_Bide Your Time  
_  
Patience is a virtue, and you wait until the orc is standing before you, water and ladle in hand. You pretend that you want to drink, but as soon as the orc is close enough, you grab for his sword. Your miscalculation about the amount of space you have, however, is unfortunate, for you hit your elbow against the hard stone behind you, drop the sword, and scramble to recover. 

In this time, the orc manages to realize what is going on and kicks the sword away. He also decides to slam the wooden bucket against your head. You become dazed, and water splashes everywhere. Within moments, more orcs pour into the room, as well as Sauron himself. “What is all this?” he demands.

“Bad elf try to escape! Try to kill good Shobug.”

Sauron shakes his head and beckons the orc to him. The orc, which you can now see to be a bit cross-eyed and smaller than the others, pouts as he holds his ladle and receives a pat on the head. “And this, Shobug, is why you cannot trust an elf.” Sauron comes closer, but not close enough for you to touch him. “You must think yourself clever,” he says.

You growl.

“You will make great sport for us later, I can tell.” He motions to the orcs to leave and then says, “Poor Shobug. He was only trying to be nice. It seems you scared him. I am going to have to punish someone for that.” Sauron looks around and singles out Edrahil. “This one seems close to you.” Sauron whistles, and a noise can be heard above. Within seconds, a large wolf races down the stairway and excitedly howls at Sauron. Sauron points to Edrahil with a snap of his fingers, and the wolf, which you can tell is no mere wolf, but one of the twisted werebeasts of these lands, leaps upon Edrahil.

You fight against the chains that bind your legs. Edrahil’s screaming grows louder, and you can tell that the wolf is toying with him, lingering with swipes at his stomach and chest and legs, and biting only enough to cause pain and not death.

Sauron walks a little closer to you as his pet continues to play, and Edrahil continues to scream. “This fate awaits you all. Tell me who you are and where you travel, and I will be merciful and kill you all quickly. Say nothing, and this is the fate for you all.”

You look around at the others, and none dare to speak. Even Beren remains absolutely silent. You hear a strangled scream come from Edrahil, and he begs, but not to Sauron.

“Say nothing! Say nothing to him! I am honored to die for the cause!”

You grit your teeth. None has been more loyal than Edrahil, you think, and you mourn him, knowing what is to come.

“Well?” asks Sauron, who walks to Edrahil and waves off the werewolf. He looks over the field of wounds on the elf and digs a fingers into a gash on his thigh. Edrahil clenches his jaw and whimpers, then lets out a cry of anguish as Sauron drags his clawed finger through the length of the wound. “Would you have him die a slow and painful death, or will you tell me who you are and earn him a swift end he seems to so deserve?”

**You still refuse to tell Sauron who you are.**

_Not a Chance  
_  
“Tell him nothing.” Edrahil grinds out the words and stares at you from across the cell. You can see the determination in his eyes to keep the mission secret and keep the company together, though it mean death for you all. 

You look down at the sword on the ground, too far away for you to obtain it now. You cross your arms over your chest. Captivity and the treatment of your companions is causing a change in your demeanor. “We know enough about you to know you will do as you please. Any promises you offer are lies.”

“Not all of them. I promise, I will make you all suffer,” answers Sauron.

“Probably the only truth we shall hear from you.” You decide to capitalize on what little freedom you have and sit on the floor. Immediately, you determine this to be a bad idea--the floor is slimy and cold, and without clothing, you are without a barrier to it. Still, you settle against the wall, knowing it is not unlikely you will be restrained again soon. “I have no intention of telling you who I am.”

“Very well.” Sauron walks to Edrahil and seizes him by the throat. “Let us see how you feel about that as you watch the life being choked out of your friend.” Sauron tightens his grip, little by little, and Edrahil gasps and twists against the chains. Small, strangled noises issue from Edrahil as his skin begins to take on a blue-violet color, and finally, with one final thin gulp for air, his entire body slumps. You close your eyes and curse. 

“One down. So many more to go. I wonder who will be next?” Sauron motions to the limp body before him. “Take this down. Feed it to the wolves.” He saunters out as the orcs unlock the chains and drag the corpse out of the pit.

Each day, another of your companions is killed. Their deaths are far more cruel than that of Edrahil, for they are torn apart before your eyes while they are still chained to the walls, unable to defend themselves. Blood sprays the stone; muscle and bone litter the ground. When the wolves are not in the pit, the remaining members of your company curse, cry, and pray--but none reveal the quest, and none say their names, nor the names of any of the others. 

Finally, only you and Beren are left. A large beast pads into the pit--one of the werewolves Sauron breeds in the darkness of the tower. Beren is closest, the wolf sets his sight upon him. You are still only stopped by the chains holding your legs; no one ever fixed the chains meant for your wrists. With one last burst of energy, you pull with all your might and loosen the iron bolts. The wolf turns his attention upon you, but hesitates. It seems you are being left for last, but you will do everything in your power to save Beren. 

Once again, you pull at the chains--and this time, one of them breaks. You grab the other and yank it several times. It snaps, and you fall to the floor. Within seconds you are up again, and you charge the confused wolf.

In a battle that will be sung about for generations, you match the wolf on damage, fighting with teeth and nails. You push on no matter the fatigue you feel, and after what seems an eternity, you slam the wolf against the wall. It yelps and slumps to the ground.

You run to Beren. He is still bound, but in you current state, you have a sudden and terrible strength. Just as you pulled yourself free of your own bonds, you are able to break the chains and set Beren free. You want to collapse to the ground, but he shouts suddenly, “Behind you!”

You turn, and the wolf is on his feet again. With a growl and a grunt, the beast begins to pad toward you. You look around, and you spy the sword abandoned by the orc over a week ago. You roll to where it is, and then pounce on the creature without further thought. Again you wrestle, only this time you have the sword. It makes you slightly more confident, and you miss an attack when you should dodge. The wolf’s jaws bite into your side, and you scream out, but the sword is effective as you plunge it through the wolf’s nearest eye. The wolf contorts and releases you, falling to the ground. You withdraw the sword with some difficulty and shove it back into the side of the wolf. Blood begins to pool on the ground, and the wolf’s eyes unfocus and dull.

“You are hurt,” fusses Beren as he comes to your side.

You look down. There is little hope for you, so you hand him the sword. “Take this, and go with Eru. Your quest does not end here, but I am done for. Go now! Farewell!”

Beren nods and takes the sword as he escapes. You slump to the ground. Close to the wolf as you are, you pull yourself along the floor and rest your head against the furry belly. You close your eyes and drift off.

**You might be asleep, or you might be dead...**

_A Deeper, Darker Pit  
_  
You come to, and as your vision clears, you are amazed you are not dead. Most certainly, you have suffered a variety of puncture wounds and slashes that have broken the skin. Undoubtedly, there was ample blood loss, and unbelievable trauma to your body, but you are alive.

Once again, chains restrain you in an upright position. The pit you are in is not the same one you were in before. It is smaller than the other place, and damp. It has an odd scent, and you pick up blood mixed with urine. There is another person with you, and you momentarily rejoice--Edrahil, whom you thought dead, is very much alive. He is chained nearby, but his bonds are all connected to the floor. Then, the harsh reality hits you-- Edrahil has likely continued to be tortured while you have watched the rest of your companions being killed night after night. “I did not think I would see you in this life again.” You are careful not to use names in case Sauron is listening. “What has happened to you?”

Edrahil lifts his head. “I always believed certain things would cause an elf to fade. Either that is not so or I am stronger than the average elf.”

You fear to know what Edrahil refers to. The doors to this hellhole open and Sauron appears soon after. He kicks Edrahil in the head on the way to you. “It was so hard to decide whether I wanted you to survive or not. I find curiosity wins out. I also find I am not pleased about what you did to my pet.”

Sauron circles the room, stopping beside Edrahil. He toes at Edrahil’s face with his boot. “No amount of...convincing could loosen this one's tongue. And I tried--oh, how I tried. We had some nice quality time together.” Sauron returns to you. “Mayhaps now you will trust how serious I am. Tell me who you are, or you will regret your decision to stay silent.”

**You tell Sauron you are Celegorm.**

_Crazy = Genius_  
  
Defiantly, you lift your head. It may be foolhardy, but then, it might also be a way to confuse the enemy. “I am Celegorm, son of Feanor, you fucking son of a whore,” you snarl at Sauron. “My brothers shall avenge me!”

“So now the truth finally surfaces.” Sauron looks to Edrahil. “And you must be his lapdog, Curufin.”

You hope that Edrahil will play along, and he does. “Took you long enough, asshole.”

Sauron appears somewhat amused. “Just like the eldest. I wonder what trophy my master will want from each of you. He still has that hand from, what is it you call him--Russandol? It sits in a jar on a shelf, beside all that vibrant red hair that was shaved from him when he was our guest. Perhaps my Lord Morgoth will want your balls on display beside your brother’s hand, Celegorm, for you have most certainly proven you have them. Tell me, how is your dear brother now? Resigned to the fact he will be little more than consort to someone who is not afraid to be king?”

As Sauron speaks, you act furious--not that it is too far from the truth. They are your cousins, after all.

“I have plans for you first. Shall we say, a little experiment? You know the tales of course of how my master skillfully twisted the Avari into the magnificent orcs. I have ambitions of such things as well, but in my case, I prefer creatures of greater stealth. Now...what shall it be? Vampire bats? Too easy for you to fly free. Serpents of fire--perhaps too accurate.”

Sauron now reveals two items previously concealed--the Nauglamir and your cast-off crown. They have been reworked and remade in the form of two collars, which he holds up to you as if he is helping you choose a tunic for a festival. Then he walks to Edrahil and does the same, deciding to fit the crown collar around Edrahil. He then brings the other to you and lifts it as his form morphs before your eyes to that of a werewolf more frightening than the others you have seen. He has eyes that watch you both, and they are everywhere. Some flicker along his many legs, and others split open on his face and chest to watch your reaction, red-gold and unblinking.

You feel the familiar weight of the Nauglamir around your neck as Sauron attaches it with gloved hands, the action a cruel mockery of all the times Edrahil has aided you in preparing for feasts and celebrations, when the jeweled wonder has been brought out and displayed upon the throat of Nargothrond’s king. It is different this time, not only in shape, but in that it seems to bring both an unease and a strange stirring within you to the surface.

“I expect the effects to be felt shortly, my pets,” he tells you as he steps back as if he is proudly considering his work. Then he leaves you, and you hear the door being shut behind.

**You sleep, but your dreams are nightmare-filled and make you restless.**

_Wakey Wakey_  
  
When you next lift your head and let out a yawn, the sound that is emitted is not familiar. You blink as you look around, and edge back. Edrahil is no longer in the pit with you, but there is a massive brown wolf sleeping right where Edrahil had been. Fearing the worst, you scramble to stand up--and as you find your balance on four legs, low to the ground, realization surfaces in your mind. That is not a wolf, or rather, that wolf is Edrahil. You see now the collar that was placed around his neck, and your stomach churns.

You pace the pit, unsure whether or not you should awaken Edrahil. So many things are different and require you to adapt. Your vision is much different than before. Gold, grey, blue, and brown are prominent, and other colors no longer exist. The room seems brighter, though you know that cannot be true. You can also see more, behind you slightly on each side.

Smells are not the same as they used to be. The degree to which you can pick up scents is shocking. Things in the pit are almost overwhelming, from the mildew to the dried blood. You are able to pick up on the number of orcs on the floor above, and where Sauron is, and how many other wolves are there.

You hear Edrahil stir, and you pad back over so that you can offer whatever comfort you might to the situation you are both in. Edrahil makes the same sort of sound you did when you awoke, but stretches out his front legs in a bow-like display, and then the back, before sitting back on his haunches. He blinks once and says, “I think we have a problem, sire.”

“You can talk! I can talk! We can talk!” You suddenly notice your tail is thumping the ground, and you curl it around your leg to still it. “We can talk.”

“Yes. When Sauron came to check on us earlier, I was awake. I called him a shit-sucking cunt-faced mother-fucker. He laughed at me, so I peed on his leg. He kicked me across the room, but it was worth it,” says Edrahil.

“I am strangely proud of you,” you say, “though I do not know where you picked up such language.”

“If I am to be Curufin, sire, then it is only right that I should act the part. It seemed something he would say and do.”

“Good man,” you tell Edrahil. You feel the fur and skin under the collar itch and you attempt to scratch at it with your back leg. It is all rather awkward and you bop yourself in the nose in the process.

“Watch for your tail, too, sire. It can be rather painful if you accidentally step on it,” explains Edrahil.

“I will keep that...in...mind.” You lift your head and sniff at the air.

Edrahil does the same. “I smell it, too. Perfume of some sort. And a dog. A large dog.”

A large dog. A large dog could just be a large dog, but it could also mean something else. “Huan. I wonder if...oh, no,” you groan.

“What? What is it, sire?” demands Edrahil.

“What if it is Huan? What if a party followed us from Nargothrond? What if Celegorm is with them and Sauron sees him?”

“Oh, that could certainly be a problem,” agrees Edrahil. A creak comes from the door, and you both leap to your feet. 

Sauron enters the pit with a contingent of orcs and wolves. “It seems we have guests, my pets,” hisses Sauron. “It is time for you to prove your loyalty to your new master. Stay here, and die. Come with us, fight, and live.”

Up above the pit you can faintly hear something vaguely familiar to you, for it was the same activity you engaged in prior to your captivity. It is a song of power, sung by a female voice. It would seem there is a rescue party at the gates, and you must decide if you will follow Sauron and learn more, or stay below and refuse to join him and his minions.

**You are certain you hear song and follow the pack up.**

_Song of Defiance  
_  
In reality, you have no desire to aid Sauron at all. You want to try to rip his throat out. However, you are still wobbly on your legs, and you have Edrahil to consider. You do not know how much more torture Edrahil can withstand.

You pad to the stairway, and Edrahil follows. “Good boy, my pretty pet,” remarks Sauron.

You resist the urge to bite his leg as you pass by. Soon, you and Edrahil are among the pack, walking in unison to the surface. It seems unlikely that Sauron could possibly trust you not to run free at this point, but then you also suspect you would not get very far with your lack of coordination and fatigue. The other wolves have likely been warned to take you out if you cause trouble.

The closer you get to the exit, the more prominent the singing you hear. It is the voice of someone fearless and fierce. When you emerge with the other wolves, you see before you no mere elf, but fair Lúthien. You remember her from the times you have visited your sister in Doriath. Even in the darkness, Lúthien is fair--or perhaps, she is more so than before compared to the despair all around you.

Beside Lúthien is Huan, and before you can fully assess the situation, Sauron sends out one of the other wolves. It does not take long for Huan to defeat the beast. A second wolf is sent out, and again, Huan is victorious.

“You,” snarls Sauron, pointing at you. “Finish her! Attack!”

You can either refuse to follow sauron's orders, or you can run out and hope that somehow, some way, Huan will recognize you, for you know that against the great hunter of Oromë, none stand a chance.

**You hope that Huan remembers you.**

_Dog Daze  
_  
Perhaps Sauron is yet unaware that even in your lupine form you have retained the ability to speak, or maybe he has forgotten that Huan is able to understand your words. Either way, you know you are running into potential freedom--or, certain death, for Huan is a fierce hunter and you saw his prowess in Valinor. You wonder if Celegorm is with him, for that will ruin what you have told Sauron, but you do not see Fëanor’s fair son anywhere.

You realize, though, that perhaps this plays to your advantage. Seeing Huan likely makes Sauron buy into your story that you are Celegorm--and what is more, he probably thinks himself clever in choosing to send you. Likely he will think that you will lose, and thus the morale of the canine will be lowered to learn he has killed his master. Maybe there is a way to save your skin and give Sauron what he wants.

As you near Huan, you notice his features appear more terrifying than you remember them to be. “What big teeth you have,” you whisper as you come closer. Huan continues to growl, but cocks his head to the side. “Huan, it is Findaráto, King of Nargothrond. I knew you in Valinor. You have been a guest as of late in my Halls. Sauron thinks I am your master and has turned me into a wolf. I know you can hear and understand me. Fight against me, but do not kill me. Let us put on a show, and then I will play dead until I think of the rest of the plan to escape.”

Huan charges, and you hope he believes you. You know he does when he snaps at your leg, but just misses a blow he should have landed. The two of you exchange fake strikes until Huan tackles you and warns you in a low voice, “Stay down. Do not struggle. Cry out when I grab your throat.”

You follow these orders precisely, and Huan softly grabs you with his mouth but not his teeth and throws you to the ground as you yelp. Then, you lie still.

With eyes mostly closed, you watch as Edrahil is made to come forth next. As he timidly approaches, you tell Huan, “He is an elf, too. Please do not harm him!”

“Neither of you smell like wolves,” Huan tells you quietly as he paces. ”Tell him not to struggle and I will do the same for him.”

Soon you are both lying motionless. You watch as Sauron exhaust his supply of wolves, saving Draugluin for the last. 

“It is you out here,” says Draugluin as he comes nearer. “I knew that bitch could not be the one killing everyone.” 

Only now do you see Huan meant for you to see him, and that neither Sauron nor the wolves could perceive Huan at the bridge. Huan chuckles, and then leaps upon the werewolf. Long and ferocious is the fighting, and many are the wounds inflicted, but it is Huan who is triumphant as Draugluin limps back to the Tower.

You think to stand, knowing Sauron would send him last, but Huan warns you, ”Stay down!” Only now do you realize Huan has been communicating by barking, and that you can understand his words.

It is good that you heed him, for next Sauron appears as he had to you and Edrahil earlier, frightening and bloodthirsty, as a werewolf of his own making. So unexpected is his appearance Huan nearly retreats and Sauron launches himself at Lúthien. “Huan! That is Sauron in disguise!” You know that you must warn Huan and also hope to cause a distraction.

“Traitor!” shouts Sauron as Lúthien swoons, but he is then subdued by some magic of Lúthien. Huan rejoins the battle and engages with Sauron.

While you know you could likely allow Huan to fight on his own, you do not want to take any chances. You get up and nudge Edrahil, and both of you aid Huan against Sauron, until Huan has him by the throat.

From wolf to snakes Sauron transforms, but he cannot elude Huan. Reluctantly, he relinquishes the tower and Lúthien takes control as Sauron transforms one final time to the form of a vampire and flies away.

Into the tower you all go, and soon you locate the place where Beren has kept himself hidden. His reunions with Lúthien is joyful, but he is distraught as he learns of the fate you and Edrahil have endured.

“It is unfair for me to ask you to continue on the quest. I release you, Finrod, with oaths fulfilled. It is your choice to go with us or no.”

**You follow Beren and Luthien.**

_Continue on the Quest  
_  
For some time, you and Edrahil continue on the quest with Beren and Lúthien. Huan comes along as well. Though winter comes, no cold nor snow bothers you, for Lúthien is able to bring forth flowers and songbirds. What does not come is progress, for at times you believe you are only wandering in circles.

Beren and Lúthien spend much time together, slipping into caves and under the cover of trees while you and your four-legged companions sleep or chase rabbits. Finally, Huan paws at Lúthien’s knee after she and Beren finish a rather long period of time together in a cave.

“You must return,” she realizes, and she looks at all three of you. “You are a faithful hound and you miss your master,” she says to Huan, and he barks in the affirmative.

Then she looks to you and Edrahil. “Nargothrond needs its king,” she says and she waves an arm to the path back home. “May your journey be a safe one.”

“If I might ask a favor, your highness?” You step closer and stretch your neck out. “If Edrahil and I are to return, we need to have these removed, in hopes that we transform back to how we once were.”

“Oh, of course!” Lúthien unclasped the Nauglamir from your neck, then releases your crown from Edrahil. “What shall be done with these?”

“Keep the Naugalmir, fair Princess, that you may show others you have the favor and loyalty of the King of Nargothrond. The crown I shall keep, should I need it to prove my claim.”

You then set off for Nargothrond with Edrahil and Huan, making haste through the cold mornings and winter nights to reach home.

**You continue to Nargothrond**

_The King is Dead  
_  
Huan takes the lead as you enter Nargothrond. Neither you nor Edrahil have regained your Elven forms yet, so you stay behind the great hound in hopes his appearance will keep you safe. It does, for no one dares challenge the giant canine of valinor.

You are not surprised when Huan leads you to the throne room. Celegorm is perched on the throne while forlorn Orodreth sits on a bench in the corner with a group of courtiers. It would seem Celegorm has continued to gather support. Curufin sits beside him on a lesser chair, with a lady on either side and his hand upon the closest knee. His son glares at him from across the room.

Huan barks twice to gain the attention of the room. All eyes are on him, and you. You walk around Huan and come to the steps before the throne, where you set the crown you have been carrying in your mouth on the ground.

Curufin stands up and walks down to inspect the twisted metal. “The King is dead,” he whispers, and then turns to Celegorm and says triumphantly, “The King is dead!”

“The King is not dear. What is more, you are in my chair,” you shout angrily, and Curufin takes a step back. You leap up the stairs and rear up, placing a paw on either side of the throne Celegorm is seated upon. “I want you and your brother out of my kingdom. Now!”

“F-Finrod?” Celegorm cautiously questions.

“Yes. Finrod. King of Nargothrond. Now get the fuck off my throne and get thee gone!”

Celegorm looks to Curufin and motions with his head. Curufin nods. You jump back to allow Celegorm to pass. As Curufin walks by his son, he says, “Come, Celebrimbor.”

You can see the distress in the eyes of the young elf, and call out, “Only you two are being banished from my Halls. Your son may stay, if he wishes it.”

Curufin turns on his heel. “And why would he stay? He is my son, not yours. He is a Fëanorian.”

“Not by choice,” responds Celebrimbor as Orodreth comes to stand by him. “I swore no oath, father. I did not wish to come to these lands, but you forced me--stole me from my mother's arms and never looked back. You dishonor her, your wife, taking others to your bedchamber. I am sick of it! Your quest of Doom is not my desire. I will stay here.”

“Celebrimbor, I order you!”

“I am not a pet to be mastered.”

“Come, Curufin,” snarls Celegorm. “This is why I deal only with horses and hounds.” He whistles to Huan. “Come, Huan! I am not pleased by your recent behavior, but I can recognize your loyalty remains. We are leaving.”

You look at Huan. “You are welcome to stay as well,” you tell him.

Huan looks at Celegorm, then you, then turns and follows Celegorm out.

“See that they leave,” you tell Orodreth, and he nods. As he leaves, you pad back up the stairs and curl up on the throne.

“Clear the room!” barks Edrahil. “Clear the room, lock the doors, and give his majesty some peace!” When this has been done, Edrahil climbs the stairs and curls up at the base of the throne. Soon you hear him snoring, and with a wolfy grin, close your eyes and doze off.

You awaken in a strange position on the throne. You groan and sit up and stretch your hands out. “Finally,” you ground out with relief as you examine the rest of your body and find it quite Elven. With some disappointment you run your hand through your unsightly short hair on your head. “Need to fix that,” you say as Edrahil stirs.

He, too, is once again in an Elven form. “I will call for someone to bring clothing, sire,” he says.

You nod as Edrahil walks towards the main doors. After another stretch and yawn, you walk to the discarded crown and pick it up. You turn it in your hands, and for a moment, you perch it on your head--then consider it may still cause someone to turn, and you fling It to the ground as you had before.

“Put that away somewhere safe,” you tell Edrahil when he returns.

”Of course, sire.” He picks up the crown “It is good to be home,” he adds.

“It is,” you agree.

**You take your place on the throne.**

_Return of the King  
_  
A day after you return, you enter the throne chamber and look at the courtiers on either side. Your steps are full of purpose and your head is held high. You are dressed in your finery, and ease your way down the aisle in flowing robes of gold and white. Your boots tap the floor and the sound echoes through the hall. You look up and take in the beauty you previously missed on account of familiarity.

Stained glass panels that depict roses at the center shine down upon your path, lit behind by precious gems from Valinor. You continue forward to the throne. Edrahil is not beside you, for he awaits you up front. He stands beside the throne with a newly crafted crown in his hands. With pride, he carefully places it on your head. “Long live the King!” he devotedly tells you before he bows low. All others in the room follow suit, with cheers of ‘Huzzah’ rising up from the crowd.

You take your rightful place on the throne. Almost immediately after you sit, a page steps over to you. “Sire, this came for you while you were gone. It has the seal of the High King. None dared open it without you here.”

You consider the scroll and take it in hand. You also consider Edrahil, who still stands beside you, stiff and loyal, a true friend, and possibly more.

**if you feel you should read Fingon's letter immediately, excuse yourself to do so.**

_Union of Maedhros  
_  
The letter from your cousin is a letter from two cousins--Fingon and Maedhros. In it, they speak of plans they have to engage in a battle against morgoth--one final battle for the freedom of Middle-earth. They seek your aid--and of course, you will offer it to them.

They are your cousins, after all.

During the preparations, you manage to uncover one of the secret plots of Ulfang, thwarting potential disaster. At the battle you are also able to talk sense to Gwindor and keep him from charging in too early as his brother is tortured before him--you have experience with this, most unfortunately. You also appeal to Turgon, your dear cousin and very best friend, and he brings twice the number of soldiers he planned, coming forth from Gondolin early enough to take part in the preparations.

When the battle begins, you, Fingon, and Maedhros fight as one unit with your personal guards at your sides, and you are unstoppable. Not dragon nor wolf nor orc commander, nor even balrog can stop you. Soon, you reach the walls of Angband, and you force your way within. Fingon finishes what his father started, though his reason is far more personal. The sight of Morgoth on his knees before the High King is rivaled only by what you do, for you secured a promise from your cousins before the battle began that there is one you will be given the chance to defeat on your own.

You battle hard, with song and sword, but in the end, Sauron grovels at your feet. You put him in bondage yourself, holding the chains tight until the Valar come and banish to the void so many, including him. “You never thought you would be mastered by a minstrel, did you?” Edrahil demands of Sauron as he stands beside you, and Sauron bows his head in defeat. The war is won, and a new day dawns in Middle-earth. It is the age of the Elves--the age of the Noldor!

** _The End_ **

[Make your own story -- Enter Nargothrond Here](https://play2.textadventures.co.uk/Play.aspx?id=editor/f8e67259-73a3-4d2c-986b-019e3836c1ed%2fYou+Are+Finrod.aslx)


End file.
